


bury it in you, because you're unforgiven too

by Thrayonlosa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Magic, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Revenge, Revenge Sex, Sexist Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 13:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thrayonlosa/pseuds/Thrayonlosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink meme fill. Theon is given an opportunity to take his revenge on Ramsay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bury it in you, because you're unforgiven too

**Author's Note:**

> Right. This is sort of an AU in which Melisandre casts a spell on Theon to return him to his previous, unmaimed self. Under this spell he is allowed to take his revenge on an imprisoned Ramsay. It also makes Ramsay's implied sexual abuse/torture of Theon much more explicit than it was in the books or show. I have exploited the magic spell trope to it's fullest. 
> 
> Ramsay is very hard to write from his own POV. I sincerely hope this isn't drivel. Title taken from The Unforgiven 2 by Metallica.

Ramsay's head is spinning.

This is not his Reek.

The man who stands before him is whole. Ten fingers, ten toes. Muscular. Hair dark and thick and shining. Restored. 

There is someone beside him – the image of a woman in flowing red robes. 

Ramsay's vision clears and he shakes his head. It feels a little like waking up after too much wine – he is vaguely nauseous and his head throbs – but he can't remember drinking himself into oblivion. His body feels strange, limbs heavy, and after a moment he realises he is unable to move. His arms and legs are spread outward uncomfortably. The position feels horribly familiar.

He is tied to the cross. _Reek's_ cross. The realisation makes his gorge rise. 

” _Reek,_ ” he spits – but of course, this is not Reek. This is the man Reek was before. Ruined. All the work that went into breaking him down, making him _perfect_ \- Ramsay's breath catches and questions rush to escape his lips, but all he can manage is a snarling,

“Reek - _fuck_ \- _how_ \- ?” with saliva spraying from his lips.

The woman beside his pet is smirking faintly and as Ramsay looks at her, he wants to dash her to the floor. This must be her doing – _witch_ , he thinks. He has heard of such magic. How else has everything he's done to his Reek been reversed? Is he dreaming? Fuck, let him be dreaming.

“You talk too much, bastard.” says his pet, and dares to smile, which would be enough to enrage Ramsay by itself. But it's the way his eyes drift over to the red witch that makes Ramsay scream in senseless rage, struggling against his bonds even though he knows it is futile. He knows how strong they are. 

“Tonight, you will address me as Lord Theon.” says the man who became Ramsay's Reek, stepping closer. Ramsay's face is hot, eyes bulging, so furious his veins might explode. When Theon ties a grubby rag securely into his mouth, Ramsay chews on it, growling like one of his own bitches. It does not give – the cloth is rough and he barely breaks a few threads. After a few moments, he gives up, hacking fitfully.

“I know you're fond of games,” Theon says, his voice full of mirth. “I'm going to play a little one with you tonight.”

Ramsay groans. This is wrong; so wrong. Reek won't - _can't_ do this to him. But this is not Reek. Ramsay tries to kick out at him, fails, hurts his foot and makes a noise like a wounded animal. _How_ has this come about? His mind will not accept it.

“Is this magic?” he hisses, words barely coherent, and sees the light in Theon's eyes. The light he's worked so hard to extinguish.

“You could call it magic,” Theon smirks again at the red witch and Ramsay grits his teeth around the foul-tasting rag. He cannot abide his pet showing that expression to anyone; Reek is _his_.

She steps close to Theon now, hands rising to unlace his shirt. She slips the cloth over his shoulders and down his arms so Ramsay can see the definition of his chest, triceps – that which had disappeared while he'd been breaking his pet in – and runs a hand down to the dusting of hair above his waistline. The other she places on his chest, running caressing fingertips over one of Theon's nipples. She smiles up at him and he smiles back, as if they are intimate – past lovers. How does she dare to touch Ramsay's pet so blatantly, as if _she_ owns him, right before his eyes? Ramsay wants to scream again. _He's mine, you cunt. Get your own human plaything._ Nobody should be touching Reek like that – no one but him.

He gurgles through the rag in garbled fury, but the red witch does not stop. She is kissing Theon's neck, tracing her tongue over his collarbones. Ramsay averts his eyes in disgust, but cannot keep himself from looking back after a moment to see Theon's face. A faint smile is curling at the corners of the man's lips, his eyes slipping closed in obvious enjoyment. It is difficult to think of him as Reek when he looks like this. He did not break easily. This magic had better come undone, and soon – or Ramsay will be forced to flay them both from feet to neck and feed them their own skin. 

The thought relaxes him, but only for a moment. 

The whore's hands are between Theon's - no, _Reek's_ legs, bringing his semi-hard cock out into the air and stroking him gently, and now Ramsay does scream. He hasn't words or blades enough for how enraged he is, and the cross shakes as he struggles in it's grip. The bitch glances at him, faintly amused, but Theon turns her head back towards his.

“Don't look at him,” he says softly, and kisses her. 

Theon grows fully hard as Ramsay watches, snarling quietly now. His throat and head hurt, and he's unsure whether that is due to this magic or his infuriated yelling. It's not just fury now. He's struck by it – an unfamiliar ache. Wants to cut his ties and cross the room in five quick strides and brain the red bitch so he can cover Theon with his body and take back what is his. That cock, visibly throbbing in her white hand – that belongs to Ramsay and he is the only one allowed to make it hard. Theon moans softly at her touch and Ramsay finds himself echoing the sound in pain. _He_ is the only one allowed to hear that. Ramsay's eyes prick and he hisses faintly. 

When Theon and the witch slide to the floor, Ramsay's anger returns full force. She straddles Theon's thighs and guides his hand to the wetness between her legs. He laughs softly, turning their bodies so Ramsay can see what his fingers are doing. Exploring the whore's cunt, glistening with her fluids. She is shuddering above him, sighing his name softly. His name – 'Theon', not Reek.

Theon.

Not Reek.

And Theon is going to fuck her, and there isn't a single thing Ramsay can do to stop him.

His stormy eyes flicker to meet Ramsay's pale ones and he grins as his cock slides inside the slut – a wicked, vengeful twist of his lips. 

Ramsay turns almost blind with rage. _Witch-whore. Only I can touch him. Who are you? Where did he find you?_ He is seeing Theon from before – the Theon Greyjoy who had such a way with women, who had been to bed with more than he could count. The legends really are true, then – because the red witch certainly seems to be enjoying herself. She is sighing helplessly, her lithe hips sliding back and forth over Theon's, and Ramsay catches sight of the glinting wetness on Theon's prick as she moves upward. And Theon is groaning softly, deep in his throat, but his eyes are still fixed on Ramsay's and to his horror, Ramsay feels his own cock stir and twitch between his legs. 

If Ramsay's hands were not tied, he would retrieve a hot poker from the fire and burn out his own corneas so he does not have to watch his pet - _his_ \- making a woman moan and press herself hard against him, taking him deep inside her. Theon holds her by the hips and moves her under him, spreading her legs so he can slip between them and drive himself back inside her. Ramsay's breath catches on an inhale. He will not break gaze with Theon, because that would mean defeat, but he is holding back another hysterical cry.

Ramsay wishes Theon would come, would end this and hurt him in any other way. He'd rather have his own fingers flayed and left to fester until they rot and drop off than watch this. When this is over, Ramsay swears upon the old gods and the new, he will gut the red witch-whore and rip her entrails out through her cunt. And he will make his pet watch and then take him hard, unforgivingly. He will spread Theon out on the floor and fuck him until he screams.

The whore's moans and screams are building up as Theon thrusts into her, faster now.

"Lord Theon!” she wails theatrically, and Theon smiles, and thick jealousy rises like vomit in Ramsay's throat. He has seen his men with enough whores to know that her climax is genuine. His Reek – his Theon? Who is he? – is making her come. Ramsay screams again, weaker now, trying to drown her out, and finally, his resolve breaks and he closes his eyes. He cannot endure the sight any longer. Those eyes – the ones that looked at him with such fear, such respect – now full of cold glee. His prick is still obstinately hard, and for the first time Ramsay _loathes_ his own body for betraying him when he is so full of resentment and bitterness.

When he opens his eyes again, the whore is dressed – magic again? She kisses Theon's cheek and he smiles at her, whispering his thanks. Ramsay growls behind his rag – but she is leaving now, thank the gods, leaving them alone so he can reclaim his pet. And he will.

But Theon makes no move to release him. The spell – if that is indeed what this is – does not break. Ramsay feels no different, and Theon paces back and forth before him, naked as the day, still smiling enigmatically. “You're hard,” he says, amused.

Ramsay rattles his limbs against the cross, trying to chew through his gag once again. Now the red witch has left, perhaps the magic will wear off slowly. Perhaps he will see Theon transform back into his sweet Reek. God, he hopes so. He is – loath to admit it, but he is almost faintly frightened of this man. He has never before been forced to face the consequences of what he has done – to Theon, or to anyone. It has never once occurred to him that the tables could be turned, by magic or by anything else. Ramsay has barely if ever felt real fear.

Theon has retrieved a dagger from somewhere – probably the whore gifted it to him – and he draws it before Ramsay's face, turning it so light reflects from the blade. 

“You aren't afraid of pain, are you, bastard of Bolton?” says Theon. “Not like other men. You're only afraid to be vulnerable. As I used to be.”

He moves the dagger to press the edge of the blade against Ramsay's neck, drawing a thin line of blood. 

“Before you broke me,” he hisses. “I suppose you're feeling sorry for yourself, now. Poor bastard, having to watch your pet fuck someone else.”

There is an awful edge to his voice that Ramsay recognizes with a chill. That unrelenting hardness – it came from him. From his own taunting as he tortured Theon into madness. 

“We're just the same,” Theon continues, “Do you realise that? Both cast out by our respective fathers. Both wanting to prove ourselves. Only I'm not a bastard. I only fucked anything that moved to heal my heart. You take delight in turning people into _shadows_.” 

Ramsay screams, hoarsely this time. He wishes Theon would hurt him again – in any way – he could bring in a whole host of whores and fuck them; the apprehension and Theon's tone are worse than anything he could actually do.

Or so Ramsay thinks.

“Tonight, you're going to know what that's like. I learned from the best.” Theon tells him harshly. He keeps the dagger close at Ramsay's throat even as he explains, “You can't move, bastard. Melisandre took care of that for me.”

Oh, how Ramsay wishes he could skin that witch. Indeed, his limbs are paralysed as Theon undoes the ties binding him to the cross. He barely has time to wonder how he was able to kick and struggle within them before he is pushed into his own chair and his hands are bound again, behind his back this time. He has forgotten about his prick as Theon spoke to him, and as Theon's hands find it now he realises he is still at half-mast. He remembers how, when he took his Reek on the floor covered in his own filth, he would laugh and tease him mercilessly about how hard and wet Reek would get even as he cried and begged for Ramsay to stop. Theon is right. They are the same.

Ramsay gulps as Theon shapes his hand around his prick, rubbing him roughly until he is fully hard. Theon jerks his smallclothes around his ankles and twists them about, immobilising Ramsay's feet and legs again. Ramsay murmurs, tossing his head from side to side, screwing his eyes shut. It is clear what Theon is going to do, and Ramsay feels a black sickness in the pit of his stomach. Never has he been taken against his will, although he has done it to so many; not just Theon. He doesn't want to want it. Theon has tormented him, and he will not be able to bear feeling any kind of pleasure at Theon's hands now.

Theon spits in his hand and slicks Ramsay's cock, forcing Ramsay to open his eyes and buck his hips, trying to force Theon's hand away to no avail. Theon climbs onto the chair, poised above Ramsay's lap, his knees either side of Ramsay's thighs and his hands gripping the back of it. Reaching behind him, he grasps Ramsay's prick and begins to sink down onto it. Ramsay groans, thrashes in his bonds but Theon remains steady. Ramsay slides into him with unnatural ease; Theon must be slick from the spell. Ramsay hates it making him shudder in delight. The sensation of Theon's tight heat around him is all too familiar and makes his balls ache deliciously, but Theon is in control and Ramsay can't abide it. The expression on Theon's face is one of someone drunk with power. Full of possessiveness and terrible, dark lust. It is as if he is looking into a mirror.

Theon begins to rise and sink on his cock, slowly. His movements are not violent as Ramsay's always were when they fucked – they are sensual and languid. Ramsay slams his head against the back of the chair. He does not want Theon to be kind. Revenge, he can understand. Wrath. Hate. If Theon were to slam his arse up and down and bruise Ramsay's hips, he could live with that. Kindness as well as pleasure in this moment will make his head spin, make him forget who he is. He feels the warmth of Theon's form as the man rides him, moans in his throat. He does not want to enjoy this. 

Ramsay feels Theon's lips slide across his cheek to kiss the corner of his mouth, and gooseflesh breaks out all over him. _Don't pleasure yourself on my cock like you're my lover, Reek. Theon. You're my pet. I need to hate you for this. Gods, I'm losing my mind._ He is alarmingly close to spending already, unable to stop the low moans trickling from his mouth through the gag. Knowing all too well how his tormentor sounds when he is going to come, Theon moves faster.

“I didn't come,” Theon whispers, “I didn't come inside her. I was saving it for you.”

Ramsay hears the words but does not understand them. His mind goes blank as he cries out and begins to come. He bites hard on the gag and sobs loudly, his seed shooting into Theon's arse as Theon continues to rise and sink, rise and Ramsay's body is taut as a bowstring, he is fighting for breath.

“You see,” Theon says, voice strained as he pulls off Ramsay's cock with an obscene wet sound, “I need you to know,” he continues, kneeling up so his glistening prick is in front of Ramsay's face, “How it is to be forced to feel pleasure by someone who has broken and tormented you. Did it work?”

So saying, he strokes himself once, twice, and releases all over Ramsay's face and hair. Ramsay screws up his face and tries to move away, but of course there is nowhere to move to. Theon moans as he stares down at his own cock spasming and painting Ramsay's lips and cheeks. Images of Theon are making themselves known in Ramsay's imagination – times Ramsay has come all over Theon or had his men rape Theon and then come in his mouth until he vomited, times he has pissed over Theon's face and then wanked himself to the sight of his pet shivering in a puddle. This is kind compared to what he's done to the man. But to Theon's question, if he could speak, he would answer yes.

Having finished and wiped his cock on Ramsay's cheek, Theon clambers off him and retrieves his dagger. Ramsay's stomach turns to ice. After all of that, is Theon going to murder him? He shuts his eyes and waits for the dagger to pierce him, spearing some vital organ.

“I'm not going to kill you,” Theon tells him reassuringly. “Hold still.”

Ramsay cannot do anything else, limbs heavy with magic's influence once again as Theon drags the blade across his chest. The cuts are deep, flesh puffing up and gaping, oozing bright blood. Ramsay begins to feel dizzy, sickened, as it runs down his stomach, pools in his belly button, soaks into his already wet pubic hair.

“Finished,” Theon breathes, making one last gouge just where Ramsay's chest meets his arm. 

Looking down, Ramsay reads the word in red, weeping lines.

BASTARD.

He looks up at Theon, cheeks staining scarlet with rage and shame, and Theon smiles down at him.

“Do not forget your name.” he says softly.


End file.
